


Study Sessions

by dawnmask



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Backupsmore University, College, Comfort, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Multi, Overworking, Studying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-07
Updated: 2018-07-07
Packaged: 2019-06-06 19:44:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15202085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dawnmask/pseuds/dawnmask
Summary: College-setting Ford overworks himself. The reader cares too much about his well-being and exposes them both for having feelings.





	Study Sessions

**Author's Note:**

> This was my first time writing Ford ever I hope I did him justice???  
> Leave any criticisms or comments below, I love hearing them & they help me improve/generate more content!

You’re lounging stomach-down on the grimy dorm rug, scratching away at your Advanced Forensic Toxicology notes. A few minutes ago you and Ford were chatting casually between equations, but now your eyelids feel heavy and you can see darkness has fallen outside. A glance at your watch says the two of you have been studying for... _five hours_?! Where did the time go?

“Ford.”

You call his name quietly into the dimly-lit room, not wanting to break the peaceful mood that’s settled among the stacks of books and staticky radio. Ford is hunched over on his bunk, face inches from his papers—barely illuminated by the weak lamp haphazardly affixed to the bed’s frame. He does not respond to your voice. You call out a bit more forcefully this time:

“ _Ford_.”

No response. Sigh. If anything, it seems he’s even more engrossed in his notes than he was thirty seconds ago. In fact, he’s leaning so close to the notebook, he could be asleep.

…  
……  
………

Oh.

He is. 

You heave a sigh, smiling and shaking your head, before hoisting yourself up to gently nudge his cheek with a pen. You have to lean to poke your arms all the way through the bed frame but manage to turn him so he’s not facedown. Poor guy’s awkward enough as it is, no need to worsen his social life with a red mark that screams “I FELL ASLEEP TAKING NOTES ON A SATURDAY NIGHT” stamped across his forehead. As you prod him like a toddler with a stick, he mutters something that sounds like “anomalies”, eyelids fluttering, but doesn’t budge. You laugh quietly again but can’t help worry for his health. When was the last time he went to bed at a normal time?

As though he heard your concerned thoughts and was determined to keep them fretting, Ford wakes up. So much for him catching even a quick break. Stretching and covering a yawn with his hand, he asks, “How long was I out for?”

“Not more than five minutes. Speaking of—you should pack up those notes and go back to bed, Ford. We’ve been at it for ages,” you respond, gathering up your own supplies as you speak. His sleepy demeanor is changed back to aggressively focused the second you suggest taking another break. “No! [Y/N], I’m so close to coming up with the right formula on the theory of weirdness for my thesis paper. _So close_.” At your good-natured scoff, he snatches up a handful of pages—covered entirely in symbols and equations you can barely comprehend—and shoves them under your nose excitedly. He leans precariously over the bunk’s frame to do so, and you can’t help but find the way he leans over you, hair falling over his intensely determined face, _incredibly_ cute.

“I’m serious! Look, I just have to—” and before you can even formulate a response he’s already turned back to his mattress to cross out—and rewrite—a hefty chunk of the page. He’s excited, that much is obvious, but as you watch him scribble away feverishly you can tell by the slump of his shoulders and frequent eye-rubs that he’s _exhausted_.

Possessed by a boldness you didn’t know you had, you scale the bunk’s ladder and sit across from him. An intervention must be had before this man collapses from sleep deprivation. Ford looks up, flushing red—a deer in the headlights. “Uh, [Y/N], can I...help you? Did you need another pen? Here, I ha—” he cuts himself off with a massive yawn as he rummages among the miscellaneous books, crumpled first drafts, and oddities. You stop him in his tracks by leaning forward and grasping his face gently with your hands, looking him square in the eye. 

“Ford.”

“[Y-y/N],” he stammers. “You’re touching my face.”

“I am. Ford, my buddy, you are falling apart at the seams. You’ve worked at least five hours since I got here, but considering I didn’t see you at breakfast this morning, you’ve probably been doing this all day. You’ve written so much you’d smell like ink and pencil lead if it weren’t for the fact you smell like B.O. When was the last time you spent more than five minutes dedicated to personal grooming?”

He blinks at you. Through his glasses, his wide-eyed, innocent blushing is magnified tenfold. Curse his dorky cuteness. “I, uh, well—that’s not really a relevant question to my research so I—” 

You squish his cheeks between your hands and lean forward for dramatic effect, laughing quietly. “Screw the research for a minute and take a damn shower. And then take a nap. And when was the last time you ate something that wasn’t processed in a factory? Not to mention—” He cuts you off, pulling off your hands with his own as he does so. 

“[Y/N], why have you suddenly developed such an interest in my self-care habits?” There’s no accusation in his voice, merely the desire to understand—how characteristic of him. He fiddles with the mess of things on the duvet, not making eye contact and blushing a considerable amount as he waits for an answer.

It’s your turn to blink in surprise. And to flush. “Because I care about you, dummy. We’re friends. Friends don’t let friends die of sleep deprivation.”

“You know as well as I do that I’d collapse and be forced to sleep before I actually di...” 

Ford trails off as you scoot even closer. You take a six-fingered hand into your own and hold his chin in the other, tilting his face up so he looks at you. He’s red as a beet but leans into your palm the tiniest bit, not breaking the eye contact you’ve forced him into. 

“Ford. Do you hear yourself?”

“I…yes. I suppose I am being a tad overzealous in my work.”

You can’t help but laugh, and he does too. 

“Allow me to correct myself—I’m being incredibly overzealous in my work, and I should tone it down so you…stop worrying so much?” He returns his wandering gaze to your face to make sure he’s guessed correctly. You sigh and lower your hand from his face to grasp his free hand. You brush his knuckles with your thumb in small, rhythmic circles.

“I won’t ever stop worrying about you, Ford,” you say softly. Eyes fixed on your intertwined hands. If you keep your thumbs moving, maybe he won’t catch how shaky you are. His breath hitches when you speak, but he lifts your hands—jerkily, awkwardly, with clear inexperience, but lifts nonetheless—to his lips. Pauses. Glances at your red, red face for permission. It’s all you can muster to incline your head ‘yes’, smiling, and he leans forward to close the distance with his lips.

“Thank you for caring,” he murmurs. “Thank you.”


End file.
